A Woman in Berlin

I was feverish with joy. No, Gerd wasn’t coming from the Western Front. His anti-aircraft unit had been shipped out to the east at the last minute. After an enemy shell hit their position three of them went off and parked themselves in an abandoned villa, where they found suits, shoes, a bale of tobacco and sufficient food. The situation got dicey though, when the local authorities, a mixture of Russians and Poles, started going through the houses. The three joined a group of Berlin evacuees and marched home with them. Gerd knew my current address from the red-bordered field-post he received about my apartment being hit. Of course, he fully expected to find my new lodgings destroyed as well and me who-knows-where. He’s amazed I’m here and in one piece. When I told him about my starvation rations he shook his head and claimed that from here on in he’d take care of getting what was needed. He had some potatoes in his sack, in perfect condition, and a piece of bacon. I started cooking it immediately, and invited the widow to join us. She knows Gerd from my stories, greeted him with an effusive hug, even though she’d never seen him before, and in her torrent of words was soon showing him her thumb-and-finger trick: ‘Ukrainian woman – like this. You – like this.’

I could see that Gerd was taken aback. With every sentence he grew colder, pretended to be tired. We tiptoed around each other and were sparing with any words of affection. It’s bad that Gerd doesn’t have anything to smoke. He had expected a flourishing black market like Berlin of old.

After the unaccustomed rich food I felt flustered and high-spirited. But in the night I found myself cold as ice in Gerd’s arms and was glad when he left off. For him I’ve been spoiled once and for all.

Disrupted days, restless nights. All sorts of people who were on the march with Gerd came by, and that led to constant friction. He wanted the guests to be fed. I wanted to save as much bacon and potatoes as I could for the two of us. If I sat there and didn’t speak he yelled at me. If I was in a good mood and told stories about our experiences over the past few weeks, then he really got angry. Gerd: ‘You’ve all turned into a bunch of shameless bitches, every one of you in the building. Don’t you realize?’ He grimaced in disgust. ‘It’s horrible being around you. You’ve lost all sense of measure.’

What was I supposed to say to that? I crawled off in a corner to sulk. I couldn’t cry, it all seemed so senseless to me, so stupid.

Do you remember, Gerd? It was a Tuesday towards the end of August 1939, around ten in the morning. You called me at work and asked me to take the rest of the day off, to go on an outing with you. I was puzzled and asked why, what for. You mumbled something about having to leave and again insisted, ‘Come, please tome.’

So we went out to the Mark and roamed through the piney woods in the middle of a working day. It was hot. One could smell the resin. We wandered around a lake in the woods and came across whole clouds of butterflies. You identified them by name: common blues, brimstones, coppers, peacocks, swallowtails, and a whole gamut of others. One huge butterfly was sunning itself in the middle of the path, quivering slightly with outspread wings. You called it a mourning cloak – velvet brown with yellow and blue seams. And a little later, when we were resting on a tree trunk and you were playing with my fingers, so quietly, I asked you: ‘Do you have a draft notice in your pocket?’ You said, ‘Not in my pocket.’ But you had received it that morning, and we sensed it meant war. We spent the night in a remote forest inn. Three days later you were gone, and the war was here. We have both survived it. But is that a good thing for us?

I gave Gerd my diaries. (There are three notebooks full.) He sat down with them for a while and then returned them to me, saying he couldn’t find his way through my scribbling and the notes stuck inside with all the shorthand and abbreviations.

‘For example, what’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked, pointing to ‘Schdg’.

I had to laugh. ‘Schändung,’ of course – rape. He looked at me as if I were out of my mind, but said nothing more.

Yesterday he left again. He decided to go off with one of his anti-aircraft buddies, to visit that man’s parents in Pomerania. He said he’ll bring back some food. I don’t know if he’s coming back at all. It’s bad, but I feel relieved. I couldn’t bear his constant craving for alcohol and tobacco.

What else? Our publishing plans are stalled. We’re waiting for an official reply. The Hungarian is showing the first signs of growing tired. Lately he’s been talking about a political cabaret that absolutely ought to be started up right now. Nonetheless we continue working diligently on our programme and do what we can to combat our general sense of paralysis. I’m convinced that other little groups of people are starting to move here and there, but in this city of islands we know nothing about each other.